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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045125">While You Were Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno'>Calais_Reno</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Many Happy Returns [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Post-Reichenbach, Regret, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:15:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,210</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a stormy night at the hospital, John gets a second chance to say something he regrets not saying. </p><p>This is the second story in my series Many Happy Returns. Each of the stories is different. Some read like fables, some like reality, and some like a parallel universe where magic might be real. I've used different POVs. The theme is the same: Sherlock comes back to John.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Many Happy Returns [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Liriels TJLC Faves Safe</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>While You Were Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Nights are always the hardest. If John can get to sleep at all, he’ll wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding, seeing it over and over again. Losing your best friend is one thing. Seeing him die, like that— even a doctor who survived a war would relive that moment endlessly. Therapy doesn’t help. Alcohol doesn’t help. Moving out of Baker Street and into another dismal bedsit doesn’t help.</p><p class="p1">He goes for walks and tries to forget.</p><p class="p1">His grief is only made heavier by the guilt he feels. He asks himself if he could have done anything differently, if he could have said something that would have changed Sherlock’s mind and prevented that confrontation on the roof.</p><p class="p1">Impossible to know, but those are the tracks his mind wears into a rut on the pavement in front of Barts.</p><p class="p1">It might have made no difference, but there is something he wishes he’d said.</p><p class="p1">He lived with Sherlock for a year and a half. When he said goodbye to him, it was hard for him to believe that it had been just over two years since he was in Afghanistan, dying. He lived, and the reason only became clear to him after he met Sherlock. For months he’d struggled with his feelings, but gradually drew closer to understanding them, though the words still eluded him.</p><p class="p1">The pool incident shook him, made him realise that he was ready not only to kill for Sherlock, but to die for him. He had never felt that way about anyone, ever. The significance of that grew over time.</p><p class="p1">While Irene Adler flirted with Sherlock and taunted him, he wrestled with his jealousy. In Baskerville, his heart was crushed when he realised how little he meant to Sherlock. Even his admission, <em>I have just one,</em> only partly reassured him.</p><p class="p1">And then there was a series of puzzles, and no time for confused love confessions. Sherlock was obsessed with his villain, and John felt useless. Too slow to see where it was heading, he stumbled out of the cab and finally looked up at the roof, where Sherlock stood, and the pieces began to fit together.</p><p class="p1">But it was too late. He would do anything to be able to rewind to that last day, to talk to him. Maybe nothing would have changed, but he would live through it all again just for the chance to tell him <em>I love you</em>. <em>Don’t do this</em>.</p><p class="p1">But life doesn’t work that way. There is no crystal ball, no way to know how little things might have altered the day’s trajectory. Time moves in one direction, no detours. He just has to live with it.</p><p class="p1">He lives, but it’s a life that has lost any meaning.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It’s Sarah who suggests that he needs to get out of the flat and do something useful, put his skills to work helping people. He’s a caregiver, and there are plenty of people who need care. She asks him to come back to work for her, but when he says he’d prefer night work, she mentions that University College has an opening in the A&amp;E department.</p><p class="p1">He agrees that something has to change. He’s spent too many sleepless nights to go on as he has, so he takes a chance, fills out the application. The next day he receives a call asking him to come in and talk with the head of the department. The interview goes well, and he has a job.</p><p class="p1">The shifts are long, but he only works four nights a week, unless they’re short-staffed. He lets it be known that he is always willing to take extra shifts, and usually works five nights. He lives close enough to walk to the hospital, and so he does, though his phantom leg pain makes him limp. When there’s a patient to lift or restrain, his shoulder complains. The invisible wounds he bears are no less painful, but it’s something he can do. Maybe it’s even enough.</p><p class="p1">During the day he sleeps on the sofa, the telly providing constant background noise. He eats takeaway food and tries not to drink too much. In the late afternoon, he rises and heads to the hospital. When they’re busy, the nights go by quickly.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">November, a year after Sherlock’s death. On a cold, grey afternoon John visits his grave for the first time in months. As before, he talks to the stone.</p><p class="p1">“Well, it’s been a year. Obvious, I know. It’s better than it was, but… Well, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forget. I think about you all the time.” He sniffs, feeling his eyes tear up. “I wish I could have done something. I wish I could have changed something, so I wouldn’t have to be standing here now, talking to a stone. Maybe you didn’t think you mattered to me. You did. You were everything to me. I know that now, and I wish I’d said.”</p><p class="p1">He shivers as a gust of wind goes through his coat. Laying a hand on the monument, he says, “You were the best… man, the most human… Well. What I want to say, what I should have said, is that I loved you. I was confused, and I never said because I was afraid, but I know it now. I loved you, Sherlock, and if you could stop being dead, just for one day, just for one minute, I’d tell you that. Maybe it wouldn’t make any difference, but I wish I’d said. I wish you hadn’t… died… not knowing.”</p><p class="p1">He stands, silent. The stone reflects back his own face, much thinner than a year ago, the defeated slant of his shoulders. “I love you, Sherlock.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As he walks to the hospital, it begins to rain. It isn’t going to be a drizzle, he can see; a full-blown storm is coming on. The sky is turning blacker as he reaches his destination, more like night than dusk, and he sees lightning flash across the sky. A heavy rain might mean a quiet night in the A&amp;E, but there’s no guarantee. Warm, sunny days seem to bring more emergencies than cold weather, but a rainy night with poor visibility could produce more accidents. A crap shoot, as always.</p><p class="p1">The rain comes down. By the time he arrives, he realises he should have grabbed an umbrella on his way out of the flat. Shivering a bit, he hangs his damp clothes in his locker and puts on clean scrubs, slips into the comfortable shoes he keeps there. The lights flicker. Like all hospitals, this one has backup generators, but it surprises him to think that tonight they might actually need them.</p><p class="p1">Stepping onto the floor a few minutes before his shift begins, he smiles at Marjorie, who is at the admitting desk tonight. He likes working on nights when she’s here because she has such a calming influence on patients who are scared or agitated. On a busy night, things can get really crazy.</p><p class="p1">He gives her a grim smile. “Forecast?”</p><p class="p1">“So far, all’s well, nothing serious. Just sent a sprained wrist on her way, and non-specific left-side abdominal pain is resting in bay two, waiting for test results. Most likely diverticulitis. And we’ve got a kid in bay seven you should check on. Came in high as a kite, looking sort of peaky. Probably cocaine, but he’s not agitated. I thought he might do a runner, but he calmed down once Cynthia got him hooked up to an IV. Maybe he just needs a place to sleep.”</p><p class="p1">The boy is sleeping when he checks on him. Young, maybe seventeen, he thinks. No name on the chart.</p><p class="p1">Curly hair the colour of chocolate, pale skin, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. There’s no weight or height listed on the chart, but he’s tall, maybe six feet, and underweight, even malnourished. John sees needle tracks on his exposed arms. An addict, not caring for himself. Probably homeless.</p><p class="p1">The boy opens his eyes, and an eerie prickle runs over John’s skin. Those eyes. Nobody has eyes like that— blue, green, gold.</p><p class="p1">He’s pulled the pulse oximeter from his finger, so John takes his wrist between his thumb and forefinger and feels his pulse. A bit rapid.</p><p class="p1">“What’s your name?” he asks.</p><p class="p1">The boy rubs his arm. “Not telling.”</p><p class="p1">“Do you have a home? Are people looking for you?”</p><p class="p1">He licks his chapped lips, looks around the room. “Where am I?”</p><p class="p1">“You’re in the A&amp;E at University College Hospital.”</p><p class="p1">He nods. They regard one another silently.</p><p class="p1">“Doctor Watson,” the boy says.</p><p class="p1">He startles, then realises that his badge gives that much information.</p><p class="p1">“Yes.”</p><p class="p1">“Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p><p class="p1">“What?” His heart is in his throat, beating as if it’s trying to escape. He’s remembering a January day, standing in the path lab at Barts, handing his phone to a man with the same eyes that are studying him now.</p><p class="p1">“Army doctor.” The boy smiles. “I can always spot a military man by his posture. You must have served in one of those places, judging by your age. Shoulder injury, and you were limping when you came in. So which is it?”</p><p class="p1">“Your eyes were closed when I came in,” he points out.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve got ears. I’m guessing the limp is psychosomatic, though. You’re not standing like a man with a leg injury. You only remember the limp when you walk. Probably PTSD, but it went away, came back recently.” He frowns a bit, studying John. “You’ve lost someone— someone you loved. And the limp has returned.”</p><p class="p1">A rumble of thunder rattles the window. John’s trying to decide whether lightning can strike twice. “Tell me your name.”</p><p class="p1">“You can call me Shezza.”</p><p class="p1">“I can call you Sherlock Holmes,” he replies.</p><p class="p1">Now the boy looks startled, and John guesses that doesn’t happen very often.</p><p class="p1">“You know me,” he finally says, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re going to call my brother.”</p><p class="p1">“Not a chance.” He laughs.</p><p class="p1">“Why not?”</p><p class="p1">“Because he’s going to bully you into rehab, and that won’t do any good because you haven’t yet figured out how bad the drugs are for you. As soon as you get out, you’ll be back on the streets again, avoiding cameras, sleeping in drug dens and boltholes. And that won’t do either of us any good. No, I’m not calling that pompous git.”</p><p class="p1">“What do you mean <em>either of us</em>?” Sherlock sits up and looks at him properly. “I must still be high. I don’t really feel it, but there must have been something hallucinogenic…” He’s talking to himself, really. “You know him, though. Obviously.”</p><p class="p1">John nods. “I know you.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t remember you.”</p><p class="p1">“Not yet, you don’t. We won’t meet for another fifteen years.” He laughs again. If anyone is high, it must be John Watson. Either that, or Sherlock Holmes has figured out time travel.</p><p class="p1">Folding his skinny legs against his chest, Sherlock frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit to taking the drugs. I thought it was cocaine, but I could be mistaken about that. I don’t remember coming here. Maybe somebody brought me. At any rate, I’m not high now, and that’s the point. Who are you?”</p><p class="p1">“Eliminate the impossible,” John says. “Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock is annoyed now, looks around for his clothes. In a minute, he’s going to get up and walk out.</p><p class="p1">John lays his hand on the boy’s arm. “Don’t go. If you need a place to stay for a few hours, I won’t throw you out. We’re not busy yet, so it’s not a problem.”</p><p class="p1">The boy relaxes, just a bit. “Tell me how you know me.”</p><p class="p1">“You were looking for a flatmate. I couldn’t afford more than a horrible bedsit, and a friend introduced us.”</p><p class="p1">“Fifteen years from now.” He narrows his eyes. </p><p class="p1">John nods. “Give or take a few. You’ll be a consulting detective by then, solving cases for the Met.”</p><p class="p1">“So obviously the drugs don’t kill me.”</p><p class="p1">“No, they don’t.”</p><p class="p1">“We’re… <em>friends</em>,” he says, as if the word is foreign. “I’m accepting your time travel hypothesis— for the moment— because I don’t have a better explanation. Our meeting here, like this, opens some rather interesting possibilities. You’ve heard of the butterfly effect?”</p><p class="p1">John nods. “I saw the film.”</p><p class="p1">“There was a film?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m talking about chaos theory, the notion that small changes can greatly impact future events. If I really have come here from the past, this conversation could alter both our futures in ways neither of us can predict.”</p><p class="p1">Trust Sherlock Holmes to think about the science of what is probably some kind of hallucination that John is having. <em>Too much coffee, too little sleep. PTSD, broken heart.</em></p><p class="p1">Sherlock grabs his hand, squeezes it so hard that John flinches. “I am not an hallucination, Doctor. This is not a dream.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>How does he do that? Bloody mind-reader… </em>
</p><p class="p1">“I was thinking,” John says. “I wish I could have done something different, something to prevent—“</p><p class="p1">Sherlock holds up a hand. “And in doing so, you would unintentionally change a lot of other things. Are you willing to risk that? If the Sherlock Holmes you know was a homeless drug addict that eventually pulled himself together, made something of his life, and became your friend, you might derail that future. In fact, you undoubtedly have already.”</p><p class="p1">“Some things shouldn’t have happened.” John turns away. He’s right, of course. Sherlock Bloody Holmes is always right about science.</p><p class="p1">The boy gets to his feet, lays his hand on John’s shoulder. “You’re grieving. It’s me, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">He nods.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t tell me how I die,” he says. “I don’t think that knowledge will help me get clean. Think carefully before you speak, John. Our meeting here has already changed the future, and it may be worse than what you’ve lived through.”</p><p class="p1">“Impossible,” he says. “Losing you was the worst thing I’ve lived through. I almost wish I hadn’t lived. I can bear anything else that happens.”</p><p class="p1">“Why?”</p><p class="p1">John shakes his head.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock huffs impatiently. “Look, I don’t want to know how I die or think about what I can do to prevent it. What you remember may already have changed. But tell me why— why you’re my friend, why you’re grieving for me. I don’t know anyone who would call me that, or who would be sad if I died. Even my parents have given up on me, and my brother thinks I’m a nuisance. Why, John— why do you care?”</p><p class="p1">“You saved my life. I was so alone after Afghanistan—“</p><p class="p1">“Aha! Afghanistan, not Iraq. I was right.” His eyes brighten. “Do continue.”</p><p class="p1">This is so <em>Sherlock</em> that he gives a little sob and covers his face.</p><p class="p1">He feels hands on his shoulders, turning him to face Sherlock. “I’m sorry. Just tell me to piss off if it makes you feel better.”</p><p class="p1">John opens his eyes and looks up at Sherlock. So young, and already taller than John. The drugs have left their mark, but he’s alive. He hasn’t grown into his looks yet, but the signs are there.</p><p class="p1">“You’re beautiful,” he says.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Are you sure <em>you’re</em> not high? No, you wouldn’t. You’re a doctor, seen a lot of trouble, and definitely don’t approve of recreational drugs.” He considers John for a moment. “It isn’t recent. I died a while ago, and you’re still grieving. What does that mean, John?”</p><p class="p1">“It means… I love you. When we met— well, you haven’t yet. When you meet me, I’m wounded, unemployed, alone. I’m near the end of my rope, and you give me a reason to live. I owe you so much, Sherlock, and I only wish I’d figured it out before you died. I’m in love with you, and I wish I’d told you. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed what happened, but I wish you’d known.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Well, now I <em>do</em> know. And while I find it hard to believe that anyone would love me enough to feel regret at my death, you must believe me when I say that I love you as well.”</p><p class="p1">John shakes his head. “You can’t know that. You said yourself, it’s all going to be different because of this thing, this… anomaly. What you’ll feel fifteen years from now— you’ll be married to your work, not interested in relationships.”</p><p class="p1">The tender smile he gives John is an echo of the smile he has so rarely seen, the one that makes his heart turn over. “Because I didn’t expect you. I never expected anyone to say those words to me. By the time I meet you, I’ve had plenty of time to build my armour. But now, I’ll be looking for you.”</p><p class="p1">“I wish I’d told you.”</p><p class="p1">“But John— this is brilliant! Don’t you see? You <em>have</em> told me!” He laughs, then grabs John’s face and kisses him. “I won’t forget. And I’ve told you, too. I love you, John Watson.”</p><p class="p1">John gasps and looks into the eyes he thought he’d never see again.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock is smiling at him. He slips his arms around John and kisses him again, deeply and with passion, and it’s just as John imagined it would be, but different, too. He memorizes the feel of Sherlock’s lips, the warmth of his body, the smell of his skin.</p><p class="p1">He pulls back and looks at Sherlock. “How do you know you’ll still love me in fifteen years?”</p><p class="p1">“Because I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m not an idiot. It only stands to reason that I’ll fall in love with you. It’s science, John.”</p><p class="p1">They cling to one another for a long moment. “I love you, Sherlock,” he whispers. “I’ll always love you.”</p><p class="p1">“I know.”</p><p class="p1">John becomes aware of his surroundings. It’s the middle of the night and he’s in a hospital, and any minute someone will be looking for him. The lights flicker; he hears a few people react.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock smiles and grabs his clothing. “Listen, John. There’s a posh-looking black car outside waiting for me by now. Don’t ask how— Mycroft always knows. At any rate, I’ve got to go.”</p><p class="p1">“Rehab?”</p><p class="p1">Another eye roll. “I’m sure. But the future is looking better. I can’t promise you anything, obviously—“</p><p class="p1">“Obviously.” He hands Sherlock the dirty hoody and jacket he wore in to the A&amp;E. “We’ll see.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock slips into his outerwear, stands smiling at John. “I won’t forget. I’ll be waiting for you. You’ve told me and I’ll remember. No regrets, John.”</p><p class="p1">Returning his smile, he nods. “Thank you.”</p><p class="p1">Looking grimy and dishevelled, Sherlock executes his turn as if an expensive coat were dramatically swirling behind him, gives John a wink, and disappears into the hall way.</p><p class="p1">John sits on the bed for a moment, looking at the chart. He fills in Sherlock’s name and clicks <em>save. </em>He has <em>evidence.</em></p><p class="p1">There are patients coming in now, out of the rain and the gloom, into the bright lights of the A&amp;E. It’s a busy night, but not a crazy one. John stitches up lacerations, listens to chests, reassures hysterical parents, and smiles at everyone. When it ends, he goes home and sleeps. For the first time in a year, there are no nightmares.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Nothing is different. His flat is boring, he works nights at the hospital, and Sherlock is still dead.</p><p class="p1">But there is less pain now, less regret. He works, he sleeps, he goes for walks. He’s not ready to date, but he goes out to the pub sometimes with Lestrade, watches the footy, even talks about Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">Takeaway is still his go-to meal, but he picks healthier dishes, the biryani instead of the korma, steamed dumplings instead of fried. More vegetables, less meat.</p><p class="p1">He goes for walks because he sleeps better when he does, and he’s started sleeping in his bed again.</p><p class="p1">He wonders if he will reach a point where it’s really all fine. Improbable, but not impossible.</p><p class="p1">As the months go by, he thinks about that rainy night, the conversation he had with a much younger Sherlock. As he walked home through the wet streets that morning, he felt an energy he’d missed for so long. He even walked by Baker Street, knocked on the door. Mrs Hudson was glad to see him, invited him in, and gave him tea and fresh-baked scones. It was a conversation long overdue, a partial healing of his wounds.</p><p class="p1">But the hope he’d had— that everything would have changed, and Sherlock would be there waiting for John, and that things would be different because John had told him and he <em>knew</em>— that hadn’t happened.</p><p class="p1">The only thing that seems to have changed is John himself. He has let go of some of the anger he felt, and that’s good. He’s glad that he told Sherlock he loved him. If Sherlock died knowing this, there must be a reason he felt he had to step off that roof. It hurts not to know why it happened, but John’s regret has softened. It isn’t closure, not yet, and it isn’t all fine, but it’s peace.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">As November approaches, the second since Sherlock died, John thinks about what he’ll say to that grave marker this year. He hasn’t been there since last year. It’s for himself he went, and he hasn’t needed that as much. But he’ll go this year, and he’ll talk to Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">He’ll tell him, <em>I don’t know why you did it, but I forgive you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I wish we’d had more time, but I’m just glad that you were part of my life, even for a short time. I’ll never stop loving you. </em></p><p class="p1">And then he’ll go home.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Having a night job isn’t conducive to dating. He doesn’t expect to stay single forever, but sometimes that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. He isn’t ready.</p><p class="p1">Tonight he is free, and he’s thinking about Baker Street and Mrs Hudson. He hasn’t been there since that November morning, walking through the wet streets, feeling that a weight had been lifted. Remembering this, he calls her. She scolds him, tells him he should keep in touch better. “You’ll come over tonight,” she says. “No excuses. It’s been far too long.”</p><p class="p1">She lets him in when he rings. He glances up the stairs towards the old flat. “New tenants?”</p><p class="p1">“Still empty.” She smiles. “Mycroft picked up paying the rent after you moved out, I suppose because Sherlock’s things are still up there. He never sent anyone to clean it out, though.”</p><p class="p1">“Odd.” It is unusual for Mycroft, who manages every detail of every situation, to have simply paid Mrs Hudson to keep his brother’s belongings. Maybe for a few months, but Mycroft is much too practical to let things go on for two years. He’s not sentimental.</p><p class="p1">Mrs Hudson is still smiling at him. He can smell something… Indian, perhaps. “Go have a look, John.”</p><p class="p1">He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”</p><p class="p1">“It will do you good. Go on, now.”</p><p class="p1">As she watches, he climbs the stairs, pauses on the landing and looks down. “There’s somebody in the flat.”</p><p class="p1">She’s smiling, but twists her hands nervously. “He’s waiting, John.”</p><p class="p1">He stares at her for a moment. And he knows.</p><p class="p1">Taking the final steps two at a time, he arrives at the door breathless, his heart pounding. The door is ajar, and he can smell takeaway. He pushes it open.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock is standing in front of the fire, looking like he can’t figure out what to do with his hands. They’re in his pockets, and then he’s clasping them together, then running them down his trouser legs. He’s smiling, a hesitant smile that almost breaks John’s heart.</p><p class="p1">“I remember what you used to like,” he says. “Samosas, naan, chicken korma. Also biryani, no meat. In case… I thought… maybe you’ve given up… meat. People do that…”</p><p class="p1">His voice trails off, and John cannot move or speak.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock steps towards him, takes his hand.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not an hallucination, John. This isn’t a dream.”</p><p class="p1">His paralysis ends; he closes the gap, puts his arms around Sherlock and buries his face in his shirt. “Sherlock. Oh, god.”</p><p class="p1">They stand like that forever, or maybe it’s just a minute. John, just taking it all in. Sherlock wordless, for once. A long moment passes. Reality settles. They are in the flat, two chairs, a fire in the hearth, and Indian food in the kitchen. Sherlock, with his arms around John. It’s everything he’s missed, and something he’s never had.</p><p class="p1">“You have questions,” Sherlock finally says. “And… I think you might be angry with me.”</p><p class="p1">John looks up, studies the face he’s missed so much. “I was. Very angry. And I still don’t understand. But I forgive you. You’re alive, and you’re here.”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll tell you everything when you’re ready. I’m not sure every decision I made was sound, but at the time, it seemed like the best plan.”</p><p class="p1"><em>That can all wait</em>, John thinks. “There’s something I need to tell you.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock smiles. “I already know.” He takes John’s face in his hands, kisses him gently, tentatively. “I’ve been waiting for you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading my series! Please subscribe if you'd like to receive updates.<br/>I have added several stories to the original four I had written.<br/>The next one will be posted on August 29. It's called The Telltale Heart.<br/><br/>Beautiful fan art by Khorazir:</p><div class="tumblr-post">
  <p>    <a href="https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/628274338126331904/inspired-by-the-amazing-fic-while-you-were-dead-by">https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/628274338126331904/inspired-by-the-amazing-fic-while-you-were-dead-by</a><br/>  </p>
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